


Occupational Hazard

by Godtiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godtiss/pseuds/Godtiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's wing gets bent while on a case. He doesn't complain but after it's over and solved, Sherlock helps anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Occupational Hazard

They’re running on adrenaline and standing in the kitchen of 221B, dark curls and fading sunlight caught in the artificial glow overhead. Sherlock’s head bends forward, a bark of a laugh escaping his lips even as his eyes find John’s, smiling and dangerous and so very Sherlock.

“Are you alright?” he asks, because they hadn’t had time to between chasing an alleged killer through the streets of London, fending off an attack from aforementioned killer, and dealing with the aftermath when Lestrade’s team had (finally) arrived. They’re still breathless and wired, still coming down from the high of the case, but John’s holding himself away from the wall, left wing bent awkwardly behind him.

He nods, sharing Sherlock’s grin even as he replies, “Fine, just landed wrong after that last tackle.”

They giggle at the memory. “You didn’t say anything about it.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

Sherlock’s own wings shift behind him, his expression rapidly sobering and John feels his own brow furrowing as his smile falls away.

“You were hurt.”

“It’s nothing, Sherlock. Just bent it a little, that’s all. Give it a few days and it’ll be back to normal.”

But the detective isn’t having any of it, darting behind John as his hand raises, hovers just above dusty grey feathers as he traces the delicate curve of the wing. John cranes his neck around to watch, breath held between his teeth when Sherlock’s hand makes contact.

“ _Jesus-_ “ John jerks, dancing away until he’s out of the detective’s reach. He feels the blood creeping up his neck, looks down because he can’t stand to look up at Sherlock’s face marred with concern.

“Sorry. It’s – uh – a bit sore.”

Sherlock makes a faint humming noise in the back of his throat, steps forward gingerly and covers the distance that had grown between them when John doesn’t flinch away. He looks, narrowed eyes roaming over the feathers, but his hands remain firmly by his side, fingers flexing and John breathes again.

“It’s not broken,” Sherlock says into the gloom, and looks up at John for confirmation even though they both know he doesn’t need it. He’s right, of course – wings are highly sensitive, and even a pulled muscle from bending it the wrong way would feel broken. John knows that as well as the next person.

“No,” John agrees. “I told you, it’s nothing serious. It’ll just be sore for a few days.”

Sherlock nods, once, and goes to rummage through the kitchen until he produces painkillers and a glass of water. John takes them with a curious look to the detective, who says nothing and watches as the pills and half the water disappears down John’s throat.

And then Sherlock’s moving, wings extended to shepherd John towards the bedrooms without contact. John complies, marveling at the inky black feathers that curve around him with grace and ease. His own wings are cradled against his back, right gently covering his left, held awkwardly to avoid the injured area.

They end up in Sherlock’s room, because it’s closest and the adrenaline is wearing off rapidly and they’re both reminded how long it’s been since they slept. John’s lost track of the hours, faded into a blur of crime scenes and chases through the darkened London alleyways, of deductions that will never not be impressive and grappling with an armed murderer without a second thought because _that’s what they do_.

It’s going to end with something far worse than a bent wing someday. John accepts this as fact, just as he accepts that he’ll likely never get their kitchen table completely clean of Sherlock’s experiments, and that there will always be at least one body part hidden away in their refrigerator, and that despite the fact that it’s inevitable that it will end far worse than a bent wing someday, they will continue to do what they do because it keeps them alive.

John folds himself onto the bed without question, on his stomach with his head turned to where the mattress dips with Sherlock’s added weight. The detective is on his side, wings extended over the edge of the bed and pale eyes tracing John’s outline in the darkness.

They fall asleep like that and when John wakes, briefly, the sun is leaking through the curtains and his legs are tangled in the sheets and Sherlock’s and there’s a great black wing draped over his back and the ache in his own is nearly gone.


End file.
